White Noise by Don DeLillo

I've been reading a lot of modern European fiction lately because I've found a few authors fitting that description who have styles that really appeal to me, a kind of deliberate quality to the prose that I had just never seen in American writing. Peter Høeg, José Saramago, Milan Kundera. It's not right to compare those three guys, but there's something that sticks in my mind about their styles. Haunting, pensive, classy yet graphic, innovative.

Enter Don DeLillo. Finally, an American who can write like that. White Noise knocked me out. Delicious. This one definitely ranks high on my list of my favourite books this year.

I'm a lousy review writer. I can't say very well what it is exactly about a book that made me enjoy it so much, or not so much sometimes. But I guess this isn't a review so much as simply a summary of the thoughts provoked by a book.

Who will die first?